


Veneration

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Ass Play, Father/Son Incest, Feanorian OT8, Group Sex, M/M, POV Multiple, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor's sons show their adoration, each in his own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veneration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maitimiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maitimiel/gifts).



> A huge thank-you to amyfortuna for their corrections and suggestions!
> 
> Maitimo/Nelyo = Maedhros  
> Macalaurë/Cáno = Maglor  
> Tyelcormo/Turco = Celegorm  
> Carnistir/Moryo = Caranthir  
> Curufinwë/Curvo = Curufin  
> Pityafinwë/Pityo = Amrod  
> Telufinwë/Telvo = Amras

Carnistir, hands on his father’s shoulders, steers him down the long, opulent passageways of the King's House. Pityafinwë and Telufinwë walk ahead of them, the urgency of their steps betraying their restlessness.

The twins half-dragged their father out of the feast hall at the first opportunity. Not because he is unwilling – Fëanáro indulges each and every one of their desires – but because the longer the dinner dragged on, the more they itched to remove him from the gaze of everybody else and have him all to themselves. As soon as they pass from the corridor into the domed vestibule of their own suite, Telufinwë turns to his father and sweeps him up in his arms, heading towards the door to Fëanáro's private rooms with rapid strides. Carnistir agrees to remain in the vestibule while his youngest brothers go on to the bedchamber.

The bedchamber is a haven and a sanctuary: a place of worship held in higher regard than the altars on Taniquetil where Manwë stands in converse with The One. 

The twins themselves made the bed that stands in the middle of it, all carven from the best ebony, and big enough that all of them can lie on it together if they so wish. Four slim columns, inlaid with silver and surmounted by wreaths of flowers, rise from the corners, but there's no canopy overhead. 

Telufinwë leads his father to stand against one of those columns to kiss and grope him, while Pityafinwë busies himself with the curtains at the other end of the room, pulling them all close over the large arched windows. Telufinwë traps Fëanáro with his body, standing so close to him that their chests are crushed together and they can feel each other's heat even through the heavy brocade of their formal robes. 

“Are you wearing it?” he asks, his hands stroking up and down his father's sides before sweeping down to his buttocks, which he squeezes.

Pityafinwë and he spent the day out of town, and barely came back in time to change into those cumbersome clothes to attend the formal dinner with the rest of their family and the highest ranks of Ñoldorin nobility. They hadn’t had time to ask their father if he had truly worn the new plug they made for him in preparation for their night together.

“Yes,” Fëanáro moans, grinding his hips against Telufinwë's thigh.

“Oh Father,” Telufinwë purrs, the warmth of his father's breath headier than any Valar-given drink. He nuzzles Fëanáro's face with his mouth and nose, giving him quick pecks and flicks of his tongue, bending to reach his lips.

Their hands roam all over their bodies, and soon begin to do away with their clothing. Embroidered tunics and pants end up strewn all around them on the hand-woven rugs which cover the floor. Telufinwë stops to admire his father's nudity, though he knows his father's body as well as his own, and when his eyes have had their fill he pushes him until Fëanáro loses the support of the column and falls on the bed.

Fëanáro lets himself fall freely, closing his eyes as he impacts with the mattress. The fall leaves him light-headed and helpless for an instant, but in that room he is more than happy to leave control to his sons and do whatever they ask him to. It makes him proud, it gratifies and comforts him to know that his sons not only love him and look up to him, but that they have chosen him as their lover as well, that they need him above anybody else and will do anything to be with him.

He sighs and draws his legs up, leaving his entrance exposed. The base of the plug rests against his skin, deceptively small and dainty. The bottom of it is painted in bright colours, an elaborate design that Telufinwë himself had come up with and applied to the toy. 

Telufinwë eyes it with a mischievous grin while he recovers his hair-ribbon from his tangled undershirt. He sits down next to his father, and beckons to his twin, who at once comes to stand by the bed and takes the ribbon from him. 

Telufinwë skims a hand up Fëanáro's chest and down his legs. He pets the inside of his father's thighs, shivering as his twin's hands work to gather his lush curls in a loose braid and tease his nape and back in the process. Telufinwë himself luxuriates in his father's skin, his fingertips pressing down, almost scratching straight lines up along Fëanáro's right thigh to his crotch. He taps the base of the plug – the simple movement reverberating through his father's body – takes hold of it and pulls it out. It's a large egg, ridged in the middle, with a rounded tip, and very narrow before the handle: the perfect instrument to eliminate the delay of preparation. Telufinwë tosses it aside, not having any more use of it for the time being. 

He tests his father's entrance with his fingers. Three slip in with no difficulty: Fëanáro is very loose and still moist from the lubricant he used with the plug, his rim and passage both invitingly pliant, a delight that is exclusively for his sons. Telufinwë turns to gaze at his twin over his shoulder. They're used to taking their father both at the same time. It's their most cherished moment in bed, and they do it nearly every time they can have sex with Fëanáro. Pityafinwë shakes his head but gives him a conspiratorial smile, signifying that they will do that later. 

Telufinwë shifts on the bed so that he can sit with his legs spread. Without having to tell him anything, Pityafinwë drops down between them and takes his already half-hard cock inside his mouth. 

At the same time, Carnistir barges through the door.

“Cáno's in the other room,” he promptly says, deflecting Telufinwë's questioning glare. “He's going to wait there until the others all get here too.”

Telufinwë nods to him, a heartfelt groan rumbling up from his throat as Pityafinwë takes him to the root without any build-up, and starts humming around his shaft.

“I hope...Nelyo doesn't take too long getting rid of our beloved cousins.”

“His loss if he does.” Carnistir walks over to the bed. He stands behind Pityafinwë, and puts his hands on his head, sinking his fingers into dark copper. Leaning over a bit, he has a clear view of his brother's mouth rising along Telufinwë's cock. 

He relishes the spectacle for a while, then turns to Fëanáro. 

Telufinwë does too. “Show him your ass,” he says, half entreat, half command.

Fëanáro turns towards Carnistir and opens his legs even wider and pulls them back, staring straight up at his fourth with a gaze that is both inviting and challenging.

“He's so very ready,” Telufinwë says, shivering again as Pityafinwë sticks his tongue out and licks his balls while holding his shaft down his throat. “He has been looking forward to have us take him all evening long, holding our toy in his ass...haven't you, atya?”

Fëanáro moves his head in assent, parting his lips and wetting them with his tongue. “I'm all yours.”

Telufinwë's chest swells with joy at the assertion. 

His most ardent, greedy wish is to secrete his father from everybody else and make sure he could never be sad. If it were at all feasible he would forbid everybody from even mentioning his name.

“I love you, Atya,” he coos, his voice charged with lust and love, the fruits of an adoration rooted so deep it knows no boundaries.

He gently pushes Pityafinwë off his cock, but doubles over to lick his wet lips as a thank-you. He manoeuvres his father to lie in the very centre of the bed, splayed open on the embroidered coverlet. 

He fucks Fëanáro hard and fast, re-stating his claim on him with each thrust. His own need is satisfied by the way Fëanáro opens and clenches around him. Their movements are so evenly matched, so harmonious, that it feels like they could just meld into one. His father's hands flutter down his back and over his buttocks, then back up along his sides before Fëanáro lets them fall listlessly on the bed when Pityafinwë sits down next to them and slips a hand between their bodies to reach for a nipple. 

Fëanáro wallows in bliss under his two sons, his invaluable twin jewels, moaning all the while. Telufinwë's thrusts rock him against the mattress. Pityafinwë explores his chest, reserving special attentions for his nipples, but soon settles on sucking him, dragging his tongue all around his cock as if he wanted to re-learn the shape of it. 

Carnistir, not at all dismayed by being a mere bystander, alternates between watching and getting rid of the most cumbersome items of his own outfit – a heavy surcoat and matching pants. Even when he isn’t looking, he’s listening. Fëanáro’s voice is a song: panting, half-coherent mumbling, calling out their names, professing his love. Pityafinwë’s licking is harmony, purposefully loud, and the smack of Telufinwë’s and Fëanáro’s bodies together a steady, pleasantly dull beat. All together they make a most delightful melody. 

Once he's clothed simply in his bright red undershirt and underpants that become his ruddy complexion to perfection, Carnistir crouches and pulls a box from under the bed. The night will be a long one, stretching very likely into morning, with plenty of room for naughty play. He lifts the box and sets it down on the nightstand. He opens it and looks askance at the bed, his lips curling into a smirk. He waits until his father turns his head in his direction, and lifts a particular item from among the contents of the box. Fëanáro groans when he sees it, but Telufinwë immediately reclaims his attention, grasping his chin. 

Satisfied with his display, Carnistir busies himself with preparations again. He retrieves a single, heavy glass from the cabinet standing next to the nightstand along with a fancy decanter, a special item made of red glass, with a very wide base narrowing gradually towards the top. The stopper is made of silver, as the handle, and comes off with a hearty popping sound. Carnistir fills the glass with the sweet, spicy damiana the bottle contains, then picks up the toy and faces the bed again. He sips at the liquor in tiny mouthfuls, relishing the fire it stokes up in his chest, almost as strong as the arousal the sight of his brothers and father regales him with.

Telufinwë's movements slow down, to curb the orgasm he feels coiling in his loins. He wants to be inside his father for as long as he can, even if he will have many chances to do it again later. He withdraws almost completely, slams back in, and pauses for a few moments, drinking down the fervour his father's eyes before going through the same motions again.

Pityafinwë swallows Fëanáro's cock with the same abandon as his twin's, not sparing his throat, and making ample use of his tongue at the same time. 

Carnistir drinks more of the liquor, letting his arousal simmer for the play he has in mind. 

“Come inside him,” he says, licking his lips, savouring the taste of liquor on them. “Wet him again, come deep inside him, so he can take this,” he says and lifts the toy he holds in his left hand. 

Telufinwë glances at the beads and smirks.

Pityafinwë takes all of Fëanáro's cock inside his mouth, jostling his balls in his hand. 

Fëanáro comes with a cry that echoes in the large room, and Pityafinwë drinks him down to the last drop. 

Carnistir sits down next to him, and as soon as Pityafinwë lifts his head from their father's crotch, moves in to kiss him. His lips are still parted and Carnistir takes advantage of it to plunge his tongue into his brother's mouth, lapping up the taste of their father on it. 

They wait like that for Telufinwë to come too, and when he does, Carnistir passes the glass to Pityafinwë, eager to have his own time with their father. 

The twins retreat to the foot of the bed, momentarily lost in each other, sharing the liquor and their father's seed.

“Hands and knees,” Carnistir instructs firmly, while he uncovers the large pot of lubricant that sits in the open on the nightstand, a brightly painted vase that could pass off as a mere decorative item. 

Carnistir watches his father's movements closely as he begins to oil the beads. Fëanáro gives a huff and pushes himself up. Despite his bulk, he is limber and agile, and he repositions himself on the bed right before Carnistir with nimble movements. 

“I haven't picked the largest ones,” Carnistir says, gazing at his father's ass in appreciation, “we don't want to stretch you too much...not yet.”

He rolls each bead in the slithery palm of his hand, tracing the small symbol engraved into it. They are seven in total, all identical in size: one for each of them.

Pityafinwë and Telufinwë both play with their father's mouth, feeding him drops of damiana from the glass with their fingers. Fëanáro is busy licking and is distracted enough that when Carnistir smacks his ass he starts and a choked gasp escapes his lips. 

Carnistir pulls his asscheeks open and presses the first bead against his softened entrance. He pushes it so that it starts slipping in, but prolongs the act in mock-uncertainty. Once it breaches his father, he holds it halfway inside, teasing the rim with his fingers. Fëanáro's legs quiver and his his toes curl. Carnistir grins and trails his right hand over the small of his father's back, grazing it with his nails and trailing his knuckles over it, while still keeping the bead half in half out. After teasing his father for a while, he pushes the bead in, and watches as his father's muscles wrap around and behind it, sucking it in.

Fëanáro groans low and long. His opening is still tingling with the sensation of having Telufinwë inside him, and Carnistir quickly pushes the knot between the beads in too, and just as quickly the second, the third, and the fourth. 

When the next is firmly lodged in him as well, Curufinwë walks in, as if on cue, at once turning towards the bed. He catches Carnistir's gaze, but has barely time to take in the wanton scene and close the door before both twins scuttle up to him, drawn to him like bees to cloying nectar, and smother him in their attentions. 

Carnistir pulls the beads out, one by one, taking his time with each only to swiftly stuff them back in. 

“You like this, Dad?” he hisses against Fëanáro's shoulder, giving it a scattering of light bites. He drops his free hand under Fëanáro's body to stroke his cock, putting his little finger to the slit, pressing as if he wanted to breach it and stick his finger in.

Fëanáro nods his head vigorously, making his hair spill over his shoulder.

The twins presently spread Curufinwë out on the bed right before Fëanáro, each holding a leg open, as an offering. He is of course completely naked, and his entrance is glistening, dripping with spit and lubricant. His cock juts up perfectly hard and his nipples are hardened. The twins settle on either side of him, expectant. 

“Father, come,” Curufinwë begs, holding out both hands towards him.

The twins have done an excellent job of stretching him, and he keeps pushing out with his ass muscles, begging to be filled by his father's cock. 

Moving is hard for Fëanáro, with his ass full of the beads, each bumping into the next at the faintest movement, and Carnistir tugs on the cord from time to time, unpredictably, causing the beads to roll and slide against his walls even more markedly. He slowly crawls between Curufinwë's legs and guides his own cock to his son's opening. 

Carnistir stops playing with the beads to allow him to concentrate long enough to breach Curufinwë and sink into him, but as soon as Fëanáro has settled into a rhythm he resumes.

Fëanáro hisses and swears. He tenses up, as if on the brink of orgasm, but Carnistir grasps his sack and pulls on it.

“Don't come,” he admonishes, “you don't want to let Curufinwë down, do you? He would be so sad if you didn't fuck him properly.” 

Even as he says that, Carnistir tugs on the cord, and the first bead presses against the rim, threatening to push through. Fëanáro grunts deep in his throat, shudders and nearly collapses on top of Curufinwë, nearly overwhelmed at being denied release while being stimulated so insistently. But Curufinwë won't allow his time with his father to be cut short. He gently pulls Fëanáro down towards himself, guiding him to lay his forehead on his shoulder. 

“Harder, Atya,” he pleads, a small, tender whisper right against Fëanáro's ear. 

Fëanáro mumbles an assent against his sweaty skin, then kisses it. The moment he starts moving again Carnistir lets go of his balls and lands a slap to his ass, but he does his best to focus solely on the soothing weight of Curufinwë's hands, and on his pleasure. 

Curufinwë maps the swells and dips of his father's back with firm touches, enrapt as the man he reveres fucks him hard and fast. He moans in ecstasy whenever Fëanáro kisses or bites or sucks on his shoulder. And he comes with his cock untouched, from the sheer thrill of having his father inside and all over him. His seed spurts between their bodies, some of it landing on his father's chest and some on his own. Fëanáro keeps his thrusts steady, making sure Curufinwë spends himself in full. 

Carnistir yanks on the cord, murmuring _'that's enough'_ and the beads pop out of Fëanáro's ass one after the other almost in a blur, pulling a string of Telufinwë's seed with them. 

Fëanáro comes. His legs give out, but he manages to push himself to the side not to smother Curufinwë, and rolls on his back. Curufinwë promptly extends a hand to caress his heaving chest, smearing the drops of his seed all over his chest, rubbing them into his father's skin. 

“Splendid,” a voice sounds, rich and clear, behind them, and they all turn.

*

Maitimo towers above the gathered guests not merely for his height. He draws everybody's attention to himself, displaying the poise, charm and felicity of speech befitting of a man of the court. He takes his leave of each of his relatives in turn, excusing his father and brothers' early departure, and waits patiently for Finwë to hand him a treat he wants Fëanáro to have.

He makes his exit from the feast hall to the bows of smitten noblemen and attendants. It amuses him – how those people think so highly of him, praise him for his righteousness, entirely oblivious to the fact that he went through toasts and exchanges of felicitations imagining what exactly his brothers and father might be doing in their bedroom. He keeps the amusement from his face, but the thought fuels his arousal.

He passes into the antechamber, where he finds Tyelcormo trying desperately to shake an evidently very drunk Írissë off. Írissë is brazen and stubborn: she's the favourite of their cousins for a reason. Tyelcormo casts him a pleading glance, but Maitimo smiles and moves on, leaving him to his predicament. He stops again in the corridor in front of the large body mirror, admiring his own reflection. He allows himself a smug smile there, and lifts both hands to readjust his crown of enamelled poppies, the same flowers which are embroidered on the long flowing overcoat draped over his more tight-fitting coat.

He ambles along three more long corridors and up a flight of stairs, letting his own anticipation simmer.

He finds Macalaurë lounging on a sofa in the vestibule, bent over a long-necked lute whose strings he plucks idly. 

“Brother,” Macalaurë calls without lifting his head from the instrument, recognising Maitimo's familiar scent and presence.

Maitimo hums a greeting and strains his ears towards the bedroom, though sound is muffled by the heavy door. 

“Father is fucking Curvo, I believe.”

“Is he?” 

Maitimo sets Finwë's present down on the table in the centre of the room, then sheds his overcoat, hanging it on a wide rack, making sure that it doesn't touch the floor and that the folds hang freely. Then he stands in front of the sofa. 

Macalaurë looks up, a smile flickering across his aquiline face. He allows himself to be pulled up when Maitimo extends a hand towards him, and tilts his head up when Maitimo bends down for a kiss, a slow loving caress. As they part, the door slams open and Tyelcormo barges into the room, red in the face as if he had run all the way from the other end of the Palace. 

“Nelyo!” he pants, stomping up to him. “I asked you to wait for me.”

“You could have taken your leave of Írissë sooner.” 

Trying to draw Írissë away from her objective is akin to trying to get a hound off the track of possible prey. Tyelcormo growls his frustration and lunges forward to give Maitimo a kiss so fierce that he almost stumbles back. Tyelcormo is not much shorter than his oldest brother, and surpasses him in build and impetuousity. 

“Let's go,” Maitimo says, warding off any more protestations from Tyelcormo. 

Tyelcormo lets himself be blandished by Maitimo's offer, but demands a kiss of Macalaurë too before they can proceed.

They enter the bedchamber soundlessly. The others are entirely taken with one another and would probably not have taken note of any noise regardless. Maitimo observes them from the rugs, with Macalaurë at his left and Tyelcormo at his right, his arms crossed over his chest. The room is permeated with the scent of sex, stuffy and messy, with clothes strewn everywhere. The tangle of bodies on the bed stands out like a jewel in a perfect setting.

“Splendid,” he says once Fëanáro has come, and as his brothers turn to him, he nods to them. “You have started this night with our father so well."

Carnistir, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë all stand to attention at the unspoken command in his eyes, as is their wont. If Fëanáro is the fulcrum of their relationship, Maitimo acts as a catalyst. It's only as it should be: being the oldest of them, he was the first to become their father's lover, and has a right to take precedence over them and decide how their sessions together should play out. Therefore they all heed him without protest whenever he joins them.

Maitimo eyes Curufinwë indulgently, forgiving his negligence because he's very obviously spent: being fucked by their father is always a heady experience. 

“Ready the bed,” he says, nodding to Telufinwë, who scuttles to the other end of the bed from where Fëanáro and Curufinwë are cuddling in each other's arms. He pulls the blankets back and plumps up the pillows, piling them against the headboard the way Maitimo likes, so that he can lounge as a king. 

“You Moryo keep Father entertained while I get ready. You can help too, Curvo, if you feel up to it.”

Smirking, Carnistir stands up and gets rid of the beads, but before he does anything else he sheds his undertunic too, flinging it carelessly to the floor next to the other pieces of clothing. 

Pityafinwë smiles archly at being chosen to make his oldest brother hard. He walks up to Maitimo, tilts his head up and opens his mouth, waiting for his obvious orders. Maitimo bends and spits into his mouth, then traces Pityafinwë's lips with his index finger, appreciating their softness, and their moistness.

“You already pleasured the others with your mouth?”

Pityafinwë flicks his tongue against Maitimo's finger. “I sucked both Telvo and Father.”

“Good.” Maitimo dragged the finger down over Pityafinwë's chin and grabbing it to tilt his face up. “I want to see you suck Moryo later.”

Pityafinwë sticks his tongue out by way of assent. Maitimo spits in his mouth again, then pushes on his shoulder with his left hand and Pityafinwë goes down on his knees without any hesitation. Maitimo's clothes are no obstacle: he parts his coat and in a matter of seconds Maitimo's cock springs free for him to relish. He licks his lips once, flashing a smirk up to his brother, and begins. 

Maitimo watches his little brother's mouth stretch around his girth and glide down over the ridge of his cockhead. His hands itch to touch Pityafinwë's hair and guide his head, as he often does. It's a demonstration of control he delights in, but tonight he lets Pityafinwë choose how he wants to do it. 

Besides, he has to lift his arms while Tyelcormo starts undoing the clasps and buttons that keep his coat closed. Macalaurë takes care of his hair He removes the flower-crown, gingerly setting it aside, and starts unwinding his many braids.

Maitimo closes his eyes, delivering himself to the deft strokes of Pityafinwë's lips and to the titillation of the hands brushing all over his body as they peel away layer after layer of clothing from him until at last the sultry air of the room envelops his naked skin. He re-opens his eyes then and directs his gaze to the bed again.

Telufinwë stares right back at him, palming his own cock. 

Curufinwë is busy sucking on their father's nipples, while Carnistir is using his fingers on his ass. One of Fëanáro's legs hangs off the bed, and Maitimo can clearly see how Carnistir takes his fingers out and pushes them back in, or traces the rim with them.

“Is he still properly wet?” he enquires.

Carnistir snickers softly. “He could do with some more lubricant, for your size, I suppose.”

“Well,” Maitimo drawls, trailing his gaze up Fëanáro's body to his eyes. “Oil him up then.”

Telufinwë helpfully clambers on the bed and stretches to reach the vase on the nightstand, handing it to Carnistir. 

Maitimo places a hand on Pityafinwë's head.

“I will give you my seed later, little one.”

Pityafinwë draws back with a pout, but instead of standing he turns to Tyelcormo.

Maitimo leaves them to whatever they want to do. He makes himself comfortable on the bed, leaning against the cushions, and calls his father to himself.

Fëanáro gives a soft moan in reply, blissfully content in the wake of his two orgasms, with Carnistir tickling and finger-fucking his hole and Curufinwë playing with his nipples. He sits up and gracefully rises to his knees. Desire flares in him again the moment his gaze locks with Maitimo's. He throws his hair over his shoulders and begins sliding on his knees towards him. Carnistir and Curufinwë make to draw back, but at a nod from Maitimo they both wrap one arm around their father's waist and gently accompany him as he climbs over Maitimo's stretched legs. He positions himself over Maitimo's spit-wetted cock, lowering himself so that the head nudges his entrance. Carnistir and Curufinwë push him down on it. 

Maitimo's whole thick length slips in the blink of an eye: it takes very little for Fëanáro to adjust to it. He opens his legs just a little wider, takes a deep breath and easefully sits back on Maitimo's thighs. 

The difference in height between them is such that even in that position Maitimo is taller than his father, if just barely. He glides his hands over his father's thighs round to his buttocks and grips them tightly, pulling his father towards his chest. 

Holding him like that – the way his father's body fits against his larger one – always gives Maitimo a peculiar sensation. The years between them are so few that they treat one another as equals, but sometimes Maitimo is tempted to go further than that. It's easy for him to fancy he's the older of the two, reversing their roles in his head so that he's torn between the instinct to protect him and pamper him and the urge to have his way with him. 

“How many times have you come already?” he asks before tracing his father's lips with the tip of his tongue. 

“Twice.” 

Maitimo brushes their lips together, smiling against them. “You don't need to come again for a while, then,” he says loudly, making sure his brothers have heard too. “Hold onto me.” 

Fëanáro promptly wraps his arms around Maitimo's neck, and starts moving even before Maitimo says, “ride me.”

Fëanáro moves fluidly, lavishly, leaning close to Maitimo, and his cock rubs up and down Maitimo's chest, dabbing it with his precome. Maitimo squeezes his ass in time with his rise and fall on his cock, but when he feels Fëanáro's cock twitch he shifts one hand to it, to keep his father's arousal in check. 

Over his father's shoulder he can see his brothers, nestled at the other hand of the bed. The twins are taking care of Macalaurë, whereas Carnistir and Curufinwë tend to Tyelcormo's desire while he waits for his turn with their father.

Tyelcormo throws him an impatient glance, but he only smiles back at him. He spent the longest at the feast, so he will have their father for longer. He tightens his hold on his Fëanáro's cock and puts his thumb over the tiny hole in his slit. Fëanáro groans, grinding down on his thighs, his head tilted back, which entices Maitimo to lick a line up his exposed neck. 

“Fëanáro,” he murmurs, “I love you.”

*

 _'I love you,'_ is bestowed on him – in speech or touch – by all his other sons, by Tyelcormo's unrelenting grip on his hips when he plunges into him, and by Macalaurë's less coarse fingers fluttering gently around his face as Fëanáro sucks him.

It's repeated over and over when the twins take him between themselves, and he lies on Telufinwë's chest nuzzling his neck, waiting with his cock already inside him until Pityafinwë moves in to take him too, and two of them fill him, their cocks pressed tightly together.

Carnistir, who is at the limit of his patience, spells it out in groans and grunts, taking Pityafinwë's place the moment Pityafinwë pulls out. His entry is pinpointed by loud squelching, and the come of three of his brothers oozes out of Fëanáro's ass, dripping down Telufinwë's sack and pooling on the bedsheet. 

When it's all done and Fëanáro is light-headed, aching to come, and very eager for still more. Telufinwë gently pulls him away from his cock and rolls him over, guiding him to lie next to him on the bed. Macalaurë lifts his head to push a pillow under it, and combs his hair away from his sweaty face, giving him a tender kiss on the lips.

The others are all enticed to do the same, scrambling past one another to reach for his lips and demonstrate their love, their reverence and their gratitude.

Fëanáro lifts his arms, his hands palm-up as if he could embrace all of them at once. He can't, but his sons vie with each other to kiss his hands too and then they all settle around his body, Tyelcormo, Telufinwë and Carnistir on the right, Macalaurë, Pityafinwë and Curufinwë on his left and Maitimo between his legs. Their hands are on him again – loving, craving, demanding – and he smiles.


End file.
